Fitting In
by TheAzureOne
Summary: When Hippopotamus Pool ends, young David Todros is a quiet, love-starved, angry and above all /Egyptian/ urchin. Rarely after do we see anything but a perfect British gentleman. Where did that rebellious, complicated, interesting boy go?
1. Chapter 1

The dream had been a vivid one; it continued in David's mind even as he slowly found his way to consciousness. He had been in Egypt. He had been ill. He had been afraid el Hamed would abandon him, kick him to the street if he found out, and he would have to beg, and plead, and take the leavings off other men's tables for his food...

Egypt faded, and el Hamed receded, but he was still ill. He clasped his arms over his stomach, pressing his lips together to stifle a moan. Curling himself around, he struck his head on the wall next to his bed--back then, he'd slept on a mat on the floor, and the wall was on the other side--and the impact was enough to partly clear his mind.

He sat bolt upright, arms clapsed over a knot of his roiling, gurgling innards, and made a dash for the door.

He made it to the faintly-lit outside, but where could he go? What should he-- The question was answered for him as a spasm brought him to his knees and he found himself retching into Aunt Evelyn's flowers.

He started shaking when he was done. It was cold at night here, even though it was summer, and the stones of the path dug into his knees while the air chilled his body. He coughed weakly a couple of times, desperate to clean out his mouth but too weak still to stand and go back inside. There was a cup of water near his bed, if only he could get back to it.

A hand landed hard on his shoulder, and he jumped to his feet, weakness forgotten in the surge of fear. He turned to face his assailant, ready to run or fight, but the man blocked his hands before he'd even gotten them all the way in front of his face and grabbed one of his wrists.

"Trying to get somewhere, Master Todros?" he asked. David's shaking had begun again. Of all the people to find him out here, why this third footman and his anger? Always angry, no matter what David had done to please or displease the family. He shook his head numbly. "No silver in your pockets, I hope?"

The suggestion took a few moments to sink in, but when it did, he could hardly contain himself. He yanked out the pocket of his sleeping trousers with his free hand, glaring at him and allowing himself the liberty of a few choice statements in Arabic.

"Then what brings you..." the footman pulled David in slightly and sniffed the air. His mouth twisted in distaste and he pushed him farther away. "You've been in Mr. Emerson's things, have you?"

Another violent shake of the head, which started it aching. "My stomach hurt. I came outside."

"And..." he looked around, appalled. "And you were sick..."

Recognizing the futility, David indicated the approximate area.

"In the lady's borders!" he whooped with laughter once. "You _are_ in trouble this time, boy! Come along," he moved his grasp from David's wrist to nearer his shoulder and turned to pull him along toward the house, taking care to keep the rest of his person as far away as possible. "Go on back to bed now, but I shall be telling the gardener in the morning, and you may be sure word will get back to--"

"Mr. Emerson?" a mild voice asked as the footman pulled David through the door.

David found himself suddenly released, and just as suddenly desperate to go back to bed.

"Mr. Emerson!" the footman said, alarmed. "Sir, I found young Master Todros here on the path before dawn!"

A chill shook David's body as appraising eyes were turned to him. "What were you doing out there, David? And dressed as you are?"

David pulled his sleepshirt closer to his body and was about to answer, but the footman beat him to it. "He was sick, sir," he said with satisfaction. "Right in my lady's begonias."

David watched anxiously to see how that was taken, but his pride would not let him beg for forgivenness with the footman there to hear.

"Sick?" He nodded miserably and once again was taken hold of, more gently this time. "You don't look well. Thank you, Somers." After a few seconds of disbelief, Somers disappeared and Uncle Walter felt his forehead briefly. "I'm not good at this. When Aunt Evelyn wakes up..."

He shivered, and Uncle Walter frowned. "Can't wait that long, can it. All right, my boy, did anyone let you wash up yet?" He shook his head, and was led to a washroom, where he rinsed out his mouth with some gratitude and realized to his horror that there was a smudge on one of his sleeves where he must have wiped his face.

"You seem like you'll keep..." Uncle Walter said, blithely unaware. "Back to bed, then. I'll have someone bring you a basin in case you're sick again--that's the way to do it, by the way, the washroom or a basin--and perhaps a hot water bottle?"

It sounded like heaven. He nodded with all the enthusiasm he could muster. "I'm sorry. I have done a very terrible thing--"

"You--what? What did you do?"

Before Uncle Walter could check his pockets for stolen spoons, he explained. "Aunt Evelyn's flowers..."

Uncle Walter laughed, seeming relieved. "Nonsense. They're just flowers. It can't hurt them, and it'll all wash away in the next rain. Which will probably be in about two hours."

David managed a weak smile at that. It seemed to rain every day here, sometimes more than once. He could not understand where all that water went. "She will be unhappy. I didn't know--I was confused, I thought--" He couldn't say exactly what he'd thought, only that he hadn't been able to think or to remember anything, and that he was amazed he'd managed to get outside in the state he'd been in.

"You thought...?" David shrugged foolishly, and Uncle Walter seemed to accept that as an answer. "People do strange things when they're not well, David. Aunt Evelyn understands it--with four children, this is not the strangest she's seen!--but I will tell her you're sorry. I'm sure she'll be in to see you when she awakens."

The light coming in the windows was stronger now, and David nodded, shame beginning to creep in to his heart. He had awakened Uncle Walter, and alarmed the servants, and made a mess in Aunt Evelyn's garden. He flushed.

"Do you want someone to sit with you?"

"No!" he said, shaking his head vehemently. He'd done enough to draw their attention. "No, I am well now. I will go to bed."

Uncle Walter insisted on walking him there, although David waited until he was gone before changing to a different shirt and returning under the covers. The housekeeper brought up a hot water bottle, which he clutched for dear life while memories of his past life flitted around before his eyes, interspersed with increasingly insensible, illogical dreams. On the whole, it was a great relief when he opened his eyes to find Raddie sitting in a chair beside him, with a book open on his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're not going to be sick again, are you?" Raddie asked as soon as David's eyes were open. "Because I'll call Nurse, but I'm not staying if you are."

David thought about it, and decided it was safe. "I'm not sick."

"Good." Raddie smiled with some relief. "I brought the book. Do you want to have a go?"

David couldn't help but look dismayed. He enjoyed the book, truly he did. It was completely different from the stupid, boring books Mr. Smith kept giving him, all about some spoiled English children who went to the zoo and played ball and ate dinner. No, this one was a story to enjoy, about hidden treasure and evil sea-robbers and a brave boy who fought them.

But today, any thought of ships tipping on the ocean made life seem that much worse. So too did the thought of sitting upright and focusing hard enough to read. He had to read well, when he read this; he could not be shamed in front of Raddie and the others.

"Maybe tomorrow?" he suggested tentatively. He had been coming to realize, lately, that he did not have to agree to every suggestion, but it was still a surprise when Raddie nodded and closed it again.

"I'm up to an exciting part, though. With a battle and guns and gold coins! You'll like that bit, when we get to it." He nodded again, satisfied. "What should we do instead?"

David looked at him blankly, and wondered what there was to do. It wasn't a question he was faced with often.

"Cards? We can play one of the games Ramses taught us." Raddie grinned at the very thought, and David smiled weakly. "I'm getting Willie and John." He slid off the chair and disappeared, leaving David alone.

He experimented with sitting upright, and thought for a moment that it wasn't too bad. Then it hit him, and he lay back down again most of the way. He'd have to play like this. That was all right, though. He had learned to play before them, and had spent more time learning the games from Ramses. But they still never expected him to win! He would win sick and lying down too.

When someone returned, it was not the boys but Aunt Evelyn, and he struggled to sit up again.

"Now, David," she said in her sweet, calm voice. "When you are sick, you must rest. We want you to be well."

He blushed and lay back again. "I am not that sick."

"Mr. Emerson says you could barely stand up this morning, dear. You will be well much sooner if you get enough rest. Are you sure you want the boys in here?" She looked a little anxious at the prospect, and reached out to touch his forehead gently. "You still have a touch of fever. Perhaps I should stay instead?"

"They will help me get well," he assured her. "I will get well much sooner if they come talk to me."

She looked torn for a moment. "You don't have to let them stay with you if you become tired," she reminded him. "When you want to sleep, you must ask them to leave."

The twins and Raddie were audible in the corridor. Footsteps were uneven, as though one of them was skipping or two of them tussling. One of the twins was saying something about brussels sprouts, and David tried to repress a smile.

"David?" Aunt Evelyn asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes," he answered. "If I am tired I will sleep."

She stood and there was a sudden silence from the corridor as the children saw her. "Mama!" said the twin who hadn't been talking about brussels sprouts. "We came to visit. Raddie says he's up, and it's raining outside."

"And if we went out to play we might get sick too and then we'd have to miss church tomorrow," the other one said virtuously.

She laughed and hugged each of them with one arm, reaching out at the last to gather Raddie into her embrace as well. David smiled to watch them, and wondered for just one moment whether his mother had put her arms around him, before she died. It was the sort of thought he had not had until very recently. He was not sure he liked having them.

"You are good boys, and you must not tire him out. David--" she released Willie and Raddie. "--Remember."

He smiled again, and she patted him on the cheek and departed.

John sighed with relief and worked a deck of cards out of the waistband of his trousers. "And you told me to hide it in my shirt pocket!" he said to Willie. "She'd have found it the minute she touched me!"

Willie shrugged. "Well, it's just lucky for you that you didn't trip on the stairs or run down the hall, or it'd have been hopping around inside your trousers the whole time."

"How're you feeling?" John asked suddenly, turning to David. He drew breath to answer.

"Was it the brussels sprouts?" Willie added. "It must have been the brussels sprouts. They could do it to anyone."

"I liked them," David protested. They had been very strange and new, but most things here were, and for all that they had tasted good.

All three of the others looked at him strangely. "You must be _really_ sick," Willie said.

"Look, if I were you, I'd just say it was the brussels sprouts. They'd never make you eat it again!" John looked almost as excited as if he were the one to be freed from his vegetables. "It's a golden opportunity!"

"But I _liked_ them," David repeated, bewildered.

"All right," Raddie said, cutting off the amazed reactions of the twins. "He's crazy _and_ sick, but can we just play?"

John gave him a cheeky grin, but handed the cards to Willie for a shuffle. When he was done, Raddie held out his hand for them too.

"You don't trust us?" Willie asked, looking wounded.

"Do I have any reason to?"

Willie handed them over, and David breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The game went well, aside from sudden flurries to hide the cards when Nurse came in with cups of weak tea and plates of toast for the invalid. (David managed the tea, and the other boys took turns on the toast, tossing a piece to little Amelia when she poked her head shyly in and saw what they were doing.)

"How do you do it?" John moaned after David won the third game in a row. "It's not fair!"

David shrugged, trying not to smile too widely. "It is just remembering."

"He had the whole trip here to play with Ramses," Raddie pointed out. "We should go to Egypt next year, too."

The thought gave David a chill. Go to Egypt? Go home? But this was his home... only it wasn't, not really. He didn't understand it here, and he didn't think he ever would. He did not want to go back. Yet, if he didn't, surely his heart would break in two.

"He's going to be sick again!" Willie said in alarm and jumped up. David panicked for a moment too, then realized they were looking at him. He shook his head in what was supposed to be a reassuring manner.

"You're all right?" Raddie said, not coming any closer. "You're sure?"

"I'm all right," David agreed, and yawned. "Sorry. I am tired, though."

The boys nearly fell over each other in their haste to get away.


	3. Chapter 3

David spent the day in bed, and the next around the house, missing church. It was a relief; church was hard enough to face when he was well, all of those English faces staring at him as they walked in. His appetite began to return, and there were fewer pieces of toast for the boys to share.

He ate well Sunday night and went to bed determined to make a full recovery by morning: Aunt Evelyn was going to the London Museum. She'd promised to bring him along, and he couldn't miss it. And then he was sick again.

He remembered the basin this time, and was quiet as he knew how. It was all becoming routine. He washed up, thinking of how he could manage to hide it so she wouldn't leave him behind.

When he came out again, Aunt Evelyn was sitting on the chair in his room. He flushed. "I'm better," he said, despite the evidence.

"I'm sure you are. You don't need to keep doing things alone, David!" She drew him near, even gathering him up onto her lap like one of the twins. He stiffened, then realized what she was doing and tried to relax. She had held him before, but he had never yet learned to relax. It was harder than a person would think from watching her children. It seemed as natural to them as a kid's nestling next to its dam.

He didn't have any answer to her. Didn't need to do things alone. He knew that, she kept telling him that, people kept telling him that, but it didn't make sense, it wasn't true. Everyone was alone. Some people were more alone. How could he remember to always go to other people? Why should he remember to always go to other people? Why share his troubles when he could take care of himself? "I'm sorry," he mumbled. It was a useful phrase.

"Poor boy. You're getting heavy, though." He raised his head, realized what close quarters they were at, and looked down again, vaguely ashamed. "Bigger and stronger, just like all of my children."

He didn't know whether to apologize or not—was he eating too much of her food? But she had never begrudged him anything, and there was always food here, always so much he could not understand it. No one was ever hungry. There was a clock down the hall; it chimed the quarter-hour.

"I wanted to go with you," he said quietly. "But now I can't."

"Go with me?"

"To London. To see the paintings. And the statues." Despair washed over him, almost as bad as being sick itself.

Her arms tightened for a moment. "David. Is that… that is why you didn't…" her voice was unsteady. What had he done now? Would she laugh at him? Had he upset her? Which would be worse? "Well, we will go to London another time. Tomorrow we will all stay home. You, and me, and little Lia. The museum will still be there on Tuesday! Even next week."

He raised his head that time, and finding himself still too close, slid down to the floor. "I can be sick then?" he asked, and felt himself smile like a fool.

"As sick as you want." She smiled too.

"Raddie moaned when he was sick. Like a gi—like a baby."

"He did," she confirmed. "And we all took care of him, didn't we."

"I don't moan, though." He sat back down on his bed and yawned, his whole self suddenly remembering it was the middle of the night and he was sick.

She smiled again. "It's not a rule."

In the morning, he was back to tea and toast, and the boys were off to school by the time he awoke. It was midmorning, and he was entertaining himself trying to fight his way through _Treasure Island_, which he'd found on Raddie's dressing table, by the time there was a tap on his door, and a little push sent it gapping open.

Little Amelia was carrying a book that was swiftly sliding out of her grasp. She managed to get in the door and then placed it—dropped it, really—on David's knee. He jerked his leg out from underneath, and she looked as though she was about to cry.

Before either of them could say anything, though, Aunt Evelyn appeared. "Thank you, LIa, well done. Now, David, I know how much you were looking forward to the museum, so until we can go, I thought you might like to see some engravings." She picked up the book and sat down, Lia pulling over one of the chairs the boys had left behind the previous night. "You might even try some copying, if you like."

He stared at her, at the book, at the corner of the room where he kept his drawing pad and his pencils. "Copying?"

"Yes, copying. It's one of the ways to learn, you see. One often finds—" he stopped hearing her, trying to absorb this idea of copying. Copying to learn. Well, and he had learned all about the art of the ancient ones, and even their writing, which was harder than these English letters that anyone could learn. He knew how to make everything correctly, the smooth planes of the clay, the faience, the painted figures with their strong, confident lines.

English painting—European painting, he corrected himself—was very different. He had thought, at first, that it meant nothing, but then he had looked closely at the world around him, and then back at the paintings, and back at the world, and suddenly it seemed he could understand how the world looked, to them. And it _was_ how the world looked. It was just that it was not how the world looked if you looked at it with any other eyes.

It was soft, very soft, this English world. And that was appropriate, for everything in England was soft. The voices, the furniture, the foods, the faces, the people. Being sick was treated with more softness. They never worried, nothing was ever hard. It was nice, the softness, nice and luxurious. He felt guilty, guilty all day for living in it. The only thing that was not soft was their clothing, for that itched and pulled and made him long for home.

Their painting was the same way, soft and smooth of edge, no sharp lines but all dull, spread, pale. But when you suddenly thought like an English, it looked like people, and It looked beautiful to English eyes. Beautiful like Aunt Evelyn, who was the most English person he knew. Who had killed a man, for him.

Not so soft, then?

"How old are you, David?" He looked at her, blinked, tried to focus and think of it. "David?"

"How old. How old is Ramses?" he asked.

"Ramses? I don't see why—Ramses is... Yes, he's twelve."

He wasn't sure why he'd asked either. Ramses was soft like an English, and hard like an Egyptian. He knew everything and said everything, but he knew how to do, also. He knew how to fight. But he also did everything he liked and knew it would be all right, after. Whatever he did he thought was for a game. To show how much better he was. And he was much better.

"I am fourteen," he decided.

"Fourteen!" she said, and looked at him closely. "Yes. You might be. You have grown quite a lot—we'll need to get you some of your own clothing soon! Fourteen. Why, we must hurry then, if you're to go to school."

"I will not go to school," he told her. This was something he'd thought of, that she'd want him to go to school. He was prepared. The boys did not like school. He would not like school. He was not clever enough for school. His voice didn't sound like the voices at school. He did not look like the boys at school.

She looked at him, and he nodded solemnly. He had not argued with her before, but now it became necessary. "You need to go to school. That's what children do." Lia nodded, her golden curls swaying with her vehemence.

"I don't need to. I will learn here, from your books and from you, and I'll learn all I need to know."

Aunt Evelyn looked down at the book in his hands, at her daughter, and not at David. "You'll need to work sometime, David, to earn a living for yourself and... and your family, if you choose to have one. How can you have good, important work without schooling?"

David shook his head. He would not have a family. He had always known he would not have a family. "I will do this," he said, nodding down at the book. "I can do art. I'm good at art, and I'm learning the English ways."

Aunt Evelyn smiled. "You are good at it," she agreed. "But I'm afraid it isn't a very good living. Many of these people-painters, and sculptors, and poets-never can support themselves, or can only sell their work when they're old and gray, or-well. That's not what you'd want."

David was dubious. It was clear to him that he'd been earning more than enough to support himself back home-back in Egypt-and it seemed strange to think that he couldn't do the same here. He could always go back, back home, where the air was warm and he knew how things were supposed to go and he could do a man's work—just so long as he stayed away from El-Hamed, and he could, now, he was stronger.

"I can't go to school," he said in the end. "I don't need to. Ramses doesn't go to school." Ramses's parents would always see to it that he was cared for. It really was all a game, to him. It was hard to keep himself from believing it too.

Aunt Evelyn smiled uneasily, but he saw that little Amelia's grin was more genuine. He smiled back at her. "Ramses is… a very unusual boy," Aunt Evelyn admitted. "I don't think he would be well served by going to school." David just looked at her, hoping he was making it very clear that he wouldn't be well 'served' by it either. "In any case, he's back in Egypt every season—he would miss far too much time."

David had understood, over the time he'd known Ramses, that he had tried school once or twice. The results had made him all the more determined to avoid that fate for himself. "I can go back also. I will learn how he does." And try to teach him the difference between games and life. And, maybe, learn the games himself.

Amelia's eyes were alight—he wished he could draw them, right then and there, or would paint be better?—and all was well until he saw Aunt Evelyn, how her mouth was pressed together. He had hurt her, but how? She wouldn't have to think of him, care for him, worry about school while he was away. She must tire, soon, of giving to him. She gave to all of her children, and would give to them, and they'd never have to worry about anything, but she had to worry about what he would do to feed himself when he no longer lived in her home. And he was too old, much too old, he suddenly saw, to be living in her home much longer.

He was here, with people who cared for him, though he didn't know why they should, who were kind to him, though he didn't know why they would be, and some day it was all going to be ruined. Some day they would wonder why they had taken in a boy who wasn't even theirs, who was ungrateful and wouldn't go to school. And that day had to be postponed, as long as it could be.

"Tell me about the art. Please?" he asked.


End file.
